Thursday, April 7, 2011

She’s Alright.

She wakes up to a loud thud.

She rises sleepily; eyes barely open, she sees the blurred outline of him. She lays her head gently back down on the crumpled pillow and watches him. She rubs her eyes with the back of her thin, pale hand and yawns. She can feel that her feet are cold and clammy—she pokes her toes out from the blanket. He grunts a quick “sorry” and goes back to his bookshelf. His eyebrows are knotted as he concentrates on removing his novels from the shelf to the ground; someone must have touched his belongings last night. That is the only explanation. She notices his sturdy arms as they move up and down, back and forth, never missing a beat as he stocks and restocks his bookshelf. She watches the light of determination within his eyes as he concentrates on each book as if they were the only one. It is when he is in one of these moods does she become fearful of him. She stifles a yawn as he finishes putting the last few novels back into place: their rightful place. Placing the last book onto the shelf, he turns to her. His forehead is no longer wrinkled with irritation and she recognizes the sparkle of liveliness in his eyes: he is back. With the back of his hand, he brushes the hair out of her eyes with one quick sweep. She blinks. He is talking to her with his eyes. She understands completely.

They walk out into the living room. She watches him walk; his natural gait is perfectly symmetrical and she tries to follow his footsteps: left, right, left, right, left, right. She halts to a sudden stop. They both stare at the numerous empty wine glasses scattered across the room. There are red wine rings on the wooden table; the room smells strongly of nicotine; dirty plates are piled on the floor and table while the couch is pushed back to the other side of the room. She cannot remember what had happened last night. Not all of it at least. She looks outside the patio doors and sees that it is raining. She shivers at the sight of the grey clouds. The tile floors are cold as she tiptoes over to a stray chair in the middle of the room. She sits with her legs up and hugs her knees as she watches him turn around to head to the bathroom. He slams the door shut.
Last night helped us solve the lingering question but where do we go from here? He told me that I’m alright; I nodded and gave him a smile but I don’t even know what that means…it’s fucking cold in here. 
She sees him walk out of the bathroom; shirtless and hair damp, he calls to her. She slowly stretches out her legs and scurries towards the bedroom.

No comments:

Post a Comment